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Sunday(in a beautiful clouted world)   She* wore a cute hat for an hour or so, two tops foraged in the bankrupt biscuit tin then siphoned the bestial stench of odd socks. Grading them. Keep or kill.   felt the craving to have seven babies immediately   fed the finagled snake- he said he wanted and then he said he didn’t and so refused to give a name - cryogenic rodents-in-a-bag that thaw just in the nick of time googled the Latin term for fingering a sleeping ass in the morning. It was gone ignored a friend request on facebook that read- imagine me laying on some beach and eating mashed potatoes in this   suicidal by 8. Hat in a tree.     *Sophie     Topless Funeral   Flanked by blue hell and death left on a vacanted barstool altar, with shrimpflicted mad dog in hand and a grin. Oh that hootless grin.   Let us annunciate still life,babygirl.     sprinkles in the Age of Ordinary   you carried your circus with you agitating molecules,juggling hearts and crotches various turning souls on an upright spit.   hair of fairground pink,inked on vanilla they * skirt around you in awe and in orbit but on the brink of revolution you were entombed up the high street,Llantwit Major.   ‘A brilliant colourist’     *on Thursday July 24th 2025 the population on the planet was 8,235,688,200 and only one of them was you   KG is a poet and author based in Wales. The author of the best-selling 'Troubadour Tale" series of books on Bob Dylan, he has now embarked on a poetic journey. Published in Wales, Ireland, England, and now in the US, his first book, "Poetry For The Feeble Minded" was published to critical acclaim. His current WIP, "A Working Class Book Of Psalms," from which these poems are taken, is due to be published in 2026.

On the shortest day of the year, in a place abandoned by the Arctic sun, a goose-stepping squad of soldiers hold electric arc lamps behind two men who flicker in the harsh shadows as they walk towards the soft orange glow of buildings huddled in the distance ahead. ME’s movie star gangster face is enshrouded in a white Arctic fox fur coat. His kid-leather gloves are thrust deep into his pockets as his combat boots lurch through the snow that blankets the permafrost. One hand caresses the compact self-loading pistol that spoke to the angry crowd, stopping them from tearing him apart the day the wall and the Great Leader’s motherland empire came tumbling down. WE’s ice blue eyes gaze from under a towering high patrician forehead, flouting the wind atop a lanky bundle of jumbled grey rags that moves with royal stride. He’s as defiant to the bitter cold as to the assassins he taunted from intensive care after their botched attempt on his life. Now WE drolly asks, “Come to visit your jolly North Pole death chamber?” “I’ve come to offer you a choice.” ME’s monotone reply. “Such a rare gift!” WE ripostes too dramatically. ME’s knows WE’s dossier. Reckless sarcasm, spoofing, and slapstick. As a young skinny nerd, WE used humor not knuckles against his opponents. But ME knows spoofing and slapstick are only funny until violence slaps the smile off one’s face. “Let’s be clear. I don’t find you witty,” ME’s glance is hardened by experience. ME’s brother died of diphtheria, his father was disfigured, his grandmother was killed, his uncles disappeared, all in defense of the Great Leader’s motherland. ME’s grandfather cooked for the Great Leader, every night placing dinner on the sideboard, then quietly retiring so the Great Leader and his dinner guests could serve themselves and discuss the war. ME places a hand on WE’s shoulder as his lips widen into the smile of a victory assured before the engagement even starts. “And there’s no one else to entertain. I’ve come for a dialog, a discussion of the future. Fair enough?” “Sure, no objections. But -” WE remembers standing silently, hand on the shoulder of an immense cow his Grandmother had him fatten up on pork lard. He gestures to the marching marionettes on his flank, assault rifles slung over shoulders. “Appears this is more show trial than dialog. You’re the judge, and the judgment,” he sighs, “will involve violence.” “Violence is dialog by other means, and life’s not fair.” ME remembers victory, how the motherland became an empire, and upon the Great Leader’s death the paralysis of power that ran that empire into the ground. ME refused a role in that antic comedy, patiently watching the first flailing moments of a short-lived democracy until ME could choke it to death with his own hands.   “If you want to discuss anything but the future of the motherland you say you care for so much for, I yield. Otherwise, may I begin?” A shit eating grin, WE nods in assent. “Right is simply a question between equals. For the rest –” “Yes, yes. The strong do what they can, the weak suffer what they must. And how’s that turning out?” WE checks his rising emotions, sniffs back the mucus filling the furrow of his upper lip, “What about fairness? What about right and wrong? Certainly in great danger you’ve as much interest in them as anyone. Your actions have consequences, and a slip on your part,” WE’s cadence slows, “Will bring on the heaviest vengeance.” “I’ll take that risk” Me’s voice trails off as his mind wanders elsewhere. WE wanders as well, to a time where the rustling grass steppes were spread under an endless sky. Where a low cinderblock factory was sheltered by a copse of trees. The doors atop the concrete shipping dock were slid open to let in the warm air. WE’s Grandfather, in knee-high black leather boots, pants rolled up over top, black suspenders covered in sawdust, waved directions to a truck backing up as he asked WE, “Are you Ukrainian or Russian?” WE complained. “That’s like asking who I love more, you or Grandma.” WE’s eyes return to the tundra.  “And how, pray tell, could it be as good for me to live as for you to rule?” A dozen pairs of black boots crunch through sharp snow. A soldier’s lamp sags a bit. ME turns, hood falling to his shoulders as his eyes scour every inch of the soldier’s body. The man hurriedly raises the lamp to its proper height. ME lifts his hood back into position, impatiently picks at the loose end of a seam. “I’m here in my interest. My offer’s in your interest as well. I gain by not destroying you, you gain by not suffering the worst.” But WE’s already suffered the worst when he watched the endless sky become pitch black. Heard the screaming sirens that cut short a paradise as it disappeared  into a radioactive cloud. The soldiers in flimsy rubber suits and ancient gas masks lined up to run one after another into the maw of a nuclear reactor run amok while WE’s family was herded onto their furniture trucks and driven into the heart of the motherland. This was the moment WE came to understand that all politics is personal. “You can’t simply let things be? The little cat and mouse games we play out with one another that entertain everyone. The mouse is certainly no threat to the cat?” WE always look for common ground. Always the World Fellow Scholar sitting on green lawns amidst ivy-covered buildings studying political science and world affairs with elite youth from around the world. Always reasoning with rationality, understanding, and dialogue. The air they breathe. “So naive.” Snorts ME, who lives in a different culture, underwater, where people have a banal hatred for those with lungs instead of gills. “That would only demonstrate weakness.” ME always flooded the zone with lies, meddling, counterfeiting, and spying. ME cribbed pages of his Ph.D. thesis from textbooks as easily as he hid genocidal terrorists in safe houses. ME loves his mook of a son WE, but is horrified by how different they are and so is unable to stop from hurting him. WE knows his words are falling flat, that he’s flunking the test, and so WE takes a different tack. “Won’t my death simply encourage others to rise up against you before you get it in your head to kill them as well?” “People, washed and cleansed in propaganda, are sheep following their shepherd. But I concede, a few can be fickle and must be more actively ‘reminded’ of what’s in store for disloyalty.” ME’s gait becomes jaunty as he recounts the rebellious general’s plane rigged to “inexplicably” drop mid-flight  from the sky. The renegade helicopter pilot found “mysteriously” riddled with bullets and covered in tire tracks across a lonely road on some sunny coast. The wind never dies. WE watches as it carves crenellations in snow and can’t help but tease ME a bit. “Well then, if you work so hard to rebuild the motherland empire, wouldn’t I be a coward not to try everything that can be tried to return us to republic?” ME sharply shoves hands in pockets as he stops for a moment, considering in silence, then says, “You’d have to kill me.” ME smiles. “Because I’m annihilating your followers. I’ve betrayed the ‘beautiful republic’ that arose from the fallen empire, befouled its honor with unspeakable crimes. As a republican it’s your mission to rescue the motherland from me! You’re the only man in the world capable of the task. The past demands you kill me. The future demands that you kill me. History demands you kill me, and history is our element, our god.” ME turns and looks up with eyes of coal at the much taller WE. “One strong man could throttle me. One cook could poison me. And why hasn't that happened yet? Because no word has yet been spoken to break my spell.” “But to submit is to give up on hope.” ME stops dead in his tracks. Face contorted in a fit of rage. Lifting both hands from his pockets, ME flaps them together to the tempo of his words. “Hope, danger's comforter, may only be indulged with abundant resources for its nature is extravagant! The weak who bet on hope see its true colors only when they are RUINED!” ME catches his breath. “And aren’t you much like me if, knowing all this, you still lead the sheep, blinded by hope, to the slaughterhouse?” “I can hope for as much of God’s fortune as you since we fight a just cause,” WE says petulantly, “what we lack in resources can be made up for by your enemies, who are much more numerous, rich, and powerful than you.” “God.” ME spits, black glove sliding across a puffy white chin. “God I believe, people I know, by the laws of their nature rule wherever they can. As for my enemies,” ME wags a black leather finger at WE. “When it comes things outside their interests, well, what’s expedient is just.” ME says dismissively. “Just look their wavering over supporting you and your cause. Their fears that I am completely mad and that if pushed too far I’ll resort to the weapons which would destroy us all.” ME scoffs. “Not a really good bet as allies.” ME spits and the material explodes into ice before it hits the ground.  “The truth of it all is that they cannot support you without courting danger. And that they court as little as possible.” “Not supporting us comes with the great danger that you will act upon them as well.” WE’s bravado melts into peevishness. ME looks at WE as his disappointing son. “I’m struck by the fact that you’ve mentioned nothing in which people might trust and be saved by. Your strongest arguments depend upon hope and the future. Your actual resources are scanty. So,” ME’s tone warms. “I’m gonna help you out. Make you an offer. Join me. Pay tribute, become my ally and designated successor. When I die, continue reforging our empire.” WE’s clearly surprised. “Why wouldn’t I simply accept your offer, bide my time, and once you’re gone, turn your empire once again into a republic?” ME laughs a bit over-dramatically. “Beside me you’ll lead the wars against our enemies, live on mega-yachts and in golden palaces, become rich in the spoils of war, besotted in hedonism, and corrupted by my future. Consider your dossier. You’ve bent to circumstance and exigency before.” ME pauses for a moment. “You’ve marched alongside far-right ultranationalists on the grounds that every element of the opposition is needed in the fight against me. When I waged war, you called for the deportation of all our enemies, referring to them as ‘rodents.’ When you ran for office, you railed against undocumented immigrants. You’re a brilliant screwup of a leader whose chaotic lifestyle makes your rare moments of heroism, the byproduct of selfishness, stand out even more. Nothing’s special to you, not even yourself!” ME’s eyes run over WE’s face. “Don’t think it dishonorable to bend once again and submit.” WE replies quietly. “Not much of a choice really, Devil’s bargain or death.” The wind gusts increase. The trees groan and crackle as they twist this way and that. Branches fly off, spin through the air, then skate across the snow into the dark distance. Snow devils rise tightly on spinning spirals of wind. ME says in a fatherly manner, “If there is one thing we both know, it’s that those who do not yield to their equals, keep terms with their superiors, and are moderate towards their inferiors, on the whole succeed best. Take a moment and consider.” ME signals the soldiers to halt as WE walks out of the harsh white light toward the orange glow in the distance, hands shoved hard in his pockets as he almost disappears into the darkness, then turns and walks back into the light, standing before ME with an awkward ironic smile pasted across his face. “The honesty of my beliefs, my naiveté. A strength and a weakness.” WE sighs. “You know I live what I believe. In that we’re the same.” ME offers an accepting nod. “There’s one more important thing I believe in. Loving others like I love myself.” ME bursts of laughter. “Oh, this is too much fun. Love. That tangled mess of deep affections, intense feelings. It has no place here.” WE looks at ME piteously. “You misunderstand. One loves others as much as one’s self – because it’s in one’s self-interest to have them love you. A future built on the self-interest of Love is much more certain than one built on the fear that you’ve staked everything upon, trusted most in, and someday will be most completely deceived by.” WE kneels before ME. “I’ll be missing from all photos,” WE says, gently placing his hand on ME’s forearm. The two men begin to chuckle.  “Yes, the passing of the greatest president no one ever had,” ME says as WE guides the pistol out of ME’s pocket and the chuckles become shaking laughter.  WE places the barrel of the gun in the gentle hollow right between his prominent brows and nose. “We’re creating a new shared experience that equals the greats of our motherland literature.” The two men sound like hyenas, laughing so hard they can barely keep the pistol positioned properly. ME, grinning ear to ear says, “Yes, a genre so saturated with cliches that it’s impossible not to write them.” ME continues in whining parody. “If I got a dollar for every ‘We didn’t get to say goodbye,’ I’d be the richest man in the world.” The two men fall to the snow, clutching their sides in fetal positions, laughing so hard they cannot breathe. Slowly they both roll to their knees and look at each other with broad smiles. WE says, between gasping breaths, “What’s it gonna be, fear or love?” Arms crossed about his chest, gripping sides still hurting from laughter, ME staggers to his feet and feels the steely cold of the pistol penetrate the leather of his glove, finding its way into his skin. WE wonders over finality. Will the slight click of the hammer be unleashed? Rob Rosen spent the better part of a life as a technologist and applied AI mathematician with a front row seat to the technology revolutions of our time -- and the resulting social convulsions. He’s written a dozen short stories that have appeared in Cold Lake Anthology, Dark Horses, Metaworker Literary Magazine, Syncopation Literary Journal, Roi Faineaint Press (Watchers of the Sky), Mania Magazine, Interwoven, and is currently working on his first novel, a story of our times as told from twenty-five hundred years ago.

Small Repairs It starts with hairline cracks— the chip in the cup’s rim you tilt your mouth around, the hinge on the door catching the frame just slightly wrong. The floorboards bow near the heater, softening under years of leaks nobody quite fixed. The window hums in a way you only hear in winter, a high, lonely frequency no one bothers to tune out. You think these things will hold, patched with good-enough glue, pressed down with passing hands. You think they will go on— this table, this wall, this life you built up like scaffolding over something hollow and shifting. But the cracks are not waiting. They are working. Each tilt, each sigh of wood, each tremor too small to notice, is a little refusal, a little undoing. And then the whole thing gives— without ceremony, without so much as a crack you can name— and you are left standing there, hands still full of tools, facing the fact that you were never repairing anything. You were only making a slower kind of breaking. Lifting Stones We carried them one by one, from the broken wall to the fence line, each stone quickening against the skin, a rough persistence we mistook for something like purpose. The dirt warmed through the soles of our boots, the sun, thick as syrup, filled our sleeves. We worked mostly in silence, only the clink and scrape of stone marking the hours as they sloughed past. Once, when I faltered, you steadied a rock against my chest— and for a second, I mistook the press of your hand for something that would stay. But everything we lifted was already slipping from itself— grit loosening at the seams, the wall shrugging off its own shape, the ground easing its grip. Even the good work bends to loss. Even the hand that steadies must open again, must let go, so that kindness, too, becomes another thing we bury. At Forty-Nine You begin reading the obituaries, at first just to make sure it’s not someone you know. Then, after a while, you read them for practice. You learn to carry grocery bags differently, closer to the body, as if protecting something that doesn’t heal as fast as it used to. You stand longer in doorways, forgetting why you meant to leave the room, forgetting what exactly was so urgent. It’s not regret that takes you by the collar— it’s the small rearrangements: the hair thinning at the temples, the running shoes that seem smug in the closet, the future no longer feeling like an arrow, but more like a road that narrows into fields. You tell yourself it’s fine. Everyone gets here, if they’re lucky. And anyway, there are still good chairs, decent coffee, a few songs you haven’t worn out yet. But some part of you knows— without bitterness, without even surprise— that you are no longer becoming anything. You are what will be left behind. What Time Does The tree that leaned against the back fence all those summers when we were young, the one we were told would have to come down someday, has grown taller, broader, its limbs weaving a high green roof that shades the porch now where nobody sits. The cracked sidewalk where we chalked our names still runs downhill, but it’s buckled and heaved, a slow shrugging off of everything we thought could be kept in place. I passed our old school last week— a different name on the sign, new windows, new doors— the only thing left of what we knew was the worn outline of a hopscotch board, half-swallowed by the asphalt. Time is kind and not so kind. It lets some things soften at the edges, the way anger wears itself out like a shouted word in an empty room. But it also sharpens small disappointments, the slights you thought you’d let go, the hurts you buried under bigger hurts. It lets the tree keep growing long after the house begins to sag. It forgives what you meant to say, but not what you said. It forgets your promises but remembers your failures with a patience you never deserved. And in the end, it leaves you here— looking out across what you thought you built, seeing what grew without you, what stayed behind, what outlived your best intentions. In Passing Where I am, something else is not. Where I move, the space neglects me. I leave no mark worth speaking of. The fields settle behind me as if I were never there. You must accept this fate, you must not cling to simply anything that floats. The sky bends no different for me. The trees turn without sorrow. The names I once answered to slip through the gaps in the air. I am less a presence than a fold, a soft rearrangement of distance. A leaf turns, a door swings, nothing stops to remember why. Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. A Pushcart nominee, Jeffery has been writing for more than 30 years. His latest poetry collection "Scars & Fresh Paint" was published in 2024 with Kelsay Books, and his poetry, prose, and essays have been featured in many journals, magazines, and websites.

no love fiercer than coyotes no joy louder i heard their warbling in the night as i lay in bed inviting the internet  i found the buck the next morning  as I was checking my fences already half a skeleton somebody really wanted his meat this big eight pointer who took the shot and bled his way to my land leaving himself to me who wished him no harm and to the coyotes who are always hungry a hunter who kills deer to feed coyotes is surplus to requirements and his soul is just an idea blackberry canes and poison ivy were even then full overgrowing  for all the deer left in the wood so i placed his skull in the arm of a tree and prayed to saint placebo and saint corolla and felt much safer for it never a sunrise in this dark dingle where the wind seldom reaches  the old earthen tank  that never did hold water w v sutra is the author of skeuomorphia , recently released by White Donkey Publishing. His poetics seek at all times to destabilize and undermine received praxis in the hope of achieving a novel manifestation.

“The numbers are in, sir.”   “Oh yes?”   “They are not looking good.”   “Oh no, hmmm?”   He has a dummy, inside which a fungus grows to imitate human organs. An amazing approximation. It has no thought. It can be trained.   “No. They’re not looking good at all.”   Outside their cells, the employees watch. They cannot decide if this is the best solution. A bit unsanitary. Yet it has made the workplace more humane, that’s undeniable.   They taught the dummy to err. To rebel gently. When it was too compliant the boss simply stored it in the closet. A threshold was discovered. The right amount of challenge. Plus, the incompetence makes it more palatable for the employees.   “Why the 18th-century aesthetic? Why the Renaissance? The Roman?”   “That’s what he wanted. I dunno. Some sort of fantasy.”   Our job is to give the boss pieces of paper on which we write numbers. We read the number off gauges, through which flows a steady stream of pressure. So long as the numbers go up, he is happy. And, luckily, numbers can always get bigger.   He likes big numbers.   But sometimes, they just don’t get bigger. Sometimes, they get smaller.   Hence, the dummy. Árón Ó Maolagáin is a writer and visual artist from Colorado and based in New York City. He studied English and Visual Art at the Metropolitan State University of Denver. After completing his undergraduate degree, he earned an MFA from the New York Academy of Art. Before focusing on fiction, Ó Maolagáin published writings on art theory and criticism. This theoretical background informs his prose. Artists of the uncanny, such as Hieronymus Bosch, inspire Ó Maolagáin’s imagery and themes.

Selkie The women at the docks say she ate the man who stole her skin, mashed his bones between aragonite teeth. His vocal cords she added to her lyre, an instrument made from the debris of sunken ships. Such a woman I wished to know, so I went looking for her at the beach head, close to the caves where it was rumored she dwelt. I waited until twilight, sun cresting over the shoreline, my hands pink and raw from the cold. She emerged from the wave foam that crashed against the cave mouth, dressed in black-green gown, threads stitched with thick sea-grass taken from the ocean floor. Virescent jewels were sewn into her salty hair, and she regarded me curiously with pebble dark eyes. I stayed with her that night, and the night after, told her of the man who killed my sister. She smiled, her mouth a dark maw of seabed and fishbone, kissed me softly on my bleeding lips. All will be righted, little one , her voice that of an ocean god, men forget often the retribution of the sea . Banshee   I will tell you what a haunting is. It is a girl, dead and buried, put to the ground. She is  face up, she is face down, she is naked, is dressed in someone’s clothes. She is pale, she is dark, she has auburn curls or corn silk tresses.  Her mouth is open, her mouth is sewn shut.  Her fingers are bloody, clean, callused,  and her skin holds every secret and knows nothing. Her body is folklore, her body is a forest, her body is in the ground. The maggots have eaten her now. She is eternal, she is nothing. She is dirt. She is a memory.  She is regret. Ashling Meehan-Fanning is a poet based in Wisconsin whose work often includes themes of magic, ancestry, and the American Midwest. She spends a lot of time thinking about ghosts and trees.

It hovers in the sky like a baby killer whale. I avoid day light because at night it’s harder to make out, but it’s still unmistakable. Starless and shiny, an obsidian square. It calls to me as I traipse down the main strip of El Poblado, the street burning with salsa and motorcycles. Overhead, the black window creeps after me and I duck into a steak restaurant.  A half-naked woman dangles from the ceiling on a hula-hoop. I ask the waitress to be seated in the back, far from my stalker. Techno pounds my ears and basketball plays on televisions—lots of tourists. I devour liquor and ribs, hoping for a reprieve. No luck. The black window opens on the restaurant wall. I voyaged to Medellin to escape the nights back home in Orlando where it lives on my ceiling—calling for me to climb up through it and vanquish the surging anxiety in my muscles. I engulf my face in my pillow. Looking up, it demands me to let go, grant it to crucify every throbbing image. Once I cross through, there’ll be no more good days but no bads ones equally. I left the country to evade the window, but it followed me to Colombia. It follows me everywhere. Shutting my eyes, it unlocks inside me, floats in my blood. I traverse past neon lights and drug dealers. Rain drizzles onto my leather jacket. It’s rainy season in Medellin. Long mirrors line the walls of the elevator in my hotel. Idling at my reflection, the mirrors turn black. The window found me. A depiction of me shunned by friends appears, which morphs into one of me in a prison cell. An inmate shoves his heel into my mouth. It transmutes again. I’m in a hospital bed, breathing into a mask. The elevator opens and I bolt to my room. Inside, I sit on the balcony, the black window back in the sky. I would go to bed, but I worry the black window is me. Brett Pribble’s work has appeared in Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, decomP, Stirring: A Literary Collection, Saw Palm, The Molotov Cocktail, Five on the Fifth, Maudlin House, Bending Genres, Bright Flash Literary Review , and other places. He is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Ghost Parachute.  Follow him on Instagram/X/Bluesky @brettpribble.

You’re eight and at a Pick-Your-Own farm in Southern Ontario, the sun pressing down the part in your hair until it feels like one long blister. Your father is trying to explain he’s there with his whole family, you’re there to pick berries, and the college guy whose summer job this is gives him that funny look. That look you’re familiar with whenever anyone hears your parents’ thick Polish accent. Like there’s something funny, something strange going on. In a few years, you will hate this look, but for now you hear your father’s “stav-birry” and you step in, the smooth way you have been stepping in since you were six. The voice of the family. “We three would like to pick strawberries, please. How much for three pints?” The college guy’s face turns to you, a sun moving, and the wrinkle between his brows smooths out. His swagger comes back and he snaps his gum as he tells you three bucks.  And so you get to picking, your mother telling you to eat as much as you can in the field, because no one can see, because the prices are high, because this is part of the deal. She is wearing a kerchief around her head in a way she thinks glamorous women in Canada do, the way she wears a fur coat and heels in winter, because she has learned the rituals of this strange land through movies and has brought those images in a battered leather suitcase across twenty years and an ocean. The fruit bursts hot in your mouth and the flies buzz dizzy around you. The smell of dirt and mud here, stains on your fingers. You can’t say if you like strawberries. You can’t say whether this is the way you want to spend an idle June afternoon. Your parents are focused on placing each berry in plastic tubs. You watch the way red flesh disappears between their lips. Next week you will go to Niagara Falls. The week after you will get a small barbecue and grill pale hot dogs in the front yard. Your parents are always learning to be Canadian but even now you see that they get the fractions wrong, like stubborn rows of numbers in class that slide and shift before your eyes. Subtracting Polish words and clothes and foods does not equal Canadian, does not equal new. There is yet another formula you don’t know. In other rows, you see other families. The little girls aren’t wearing a straw hat (strav hat) and sundresses like you. Jeans and bucket hats. Your mother does not seem to notice this. But you notice the easy confidence of overalls and words, the way the little boy two rows over pops three berries into his mouth at the same time, picks his nose, and sticks his tongue at you. In the distance, the college guy is wiping his face with a towel and leaning down to someone with long hair and a bathing suit.  You have a dim memory of the fields at your grandmother’s house. Fields of green cabbage, fields of tobacco plants taller than you. There, you picked because it was what the family did. What would your grandmother think of the idea of paying to pick fruit, eating it furtively? You think you wouldn’t like the answer. Is this what being Canadian means—having enough money to pay for something that families have been doing for years just to survive? Sitting outside in the hot sun? You look down the long rows. Plant after plant in perfect lines, like rows of numbers. The salt of your sweat stings the insides of your eyes. The berries are red and sweet and you will never eat them all.   Agata Antonow is a writer living and working in Canada. Her work has been featured in the Mile End Poets' Festival, Our Times, The Gravity of the Thing, Defenestration, Eunoia Review, and the FOLD (Festival of Literary Diversity) program, among other places.

A dog-eared rag of duct tape flaps on our plane’s wing outside my window as we take off; my cell signal falling away with the earth, leaving behind the guy who doesn’t want to meet my parents yet. My sister’s last text, flying with me: Until you become a parent, you really can’t understand what real love is. A thirty-day AA chip rattles in the pocket of my winter coat against a tube of lipstick in time with the engine. An electric whine audible over noise-canceling headphones; an indecipherable Marvel movie on my phone. The cookies the flight attendant hands over instead of a hot meal. Santa hats and a beverage cart strung with Christmas lights. They take credit cards, including the Visa gift card from my aunt. Somewhere on the ground, my sister and her new baby are in a bedroom with the words New Beginnings  in gold cursive over the crib. Somewhere else on the ground, my parents are making up my old bedroom for me to stay with them for a week and yesterday someone stole my car battery and slashed my tires just for good measure so I took an Uber to the airport. I don’t want to spend eight bucks for Wifi to text my sponsor. My phone’s screen hurts my eyes in the dark; outside my window the duct tape waves like a lover on a train platform and I know the most dangerous words for an alcoholic are ‘I’ve been thinking.’ Ordering Jack and Coke feels like hugging a friend waiting at baggage claim. My I’ll go everywhere with you drink. I hold out my card to pay. The stewardess waves me off: ‘ Merry Christmas .’ She says the words the way you’d say, ‘screw it.’ My movie gets a little better. Outside my window the duct tape on the wing does the mashed potato in the jetstream. I do a little math problem, about my three-hour flight; the size of the airplane Jack bottles; how much time I’ll need to get squared away when we land. I press the service light again and chew the ice in my little plastic cup. The same stewardess only she’s ditched the Santa hat. When I order another she’s ready with her card reader before I get the words out. Outside my window I see a creature at the tip of the wing. Small, like a piece of garbage clinging to the leading edge. It hangs there on claws a little like a sloth. The duct tape, closer to my window, does a king cobra twirl and grows a little longer. I order a double that tastes like ‘ Fairytale of New York ’ on a jukebox while the creature outside struggles against the wind. The person next to me is watching HBO and I shoulder-surf the plot because he’s got subtitles on. The air outside must be cold; the creature has brown-black fur like a mink coat that whips in the wind like palm trees in a hurricane. A little square mouth loaded with teeth bared to the gale. One fish-hooked claw works at the wing, striking it the way a carpenter hits a stubborn nail. The engine gives a little whinny; a square piece of aluminum no bigger than a playing card flies off behind us and the creatures hugs the wing with one claw dug into the hole left behind. A different flight attendant this time; he doesn’t have the beverage cart or anything but I flag him down all the same and this time I hold up the cash I have on hand, including five for a tip. This time it’s me who says  Merry Christmas  and he gives me a thumbs up; our special bond among the world-weary and cool.  The creature outside my window works on another hole; one claw dug in securely in the guts of the wing, the other claw chipping away at the wing closer to the cabin. Big headlight eyes – a little like an owl– and a slit nose to keep out the chill. The eyes narrow while the creature works, and this time when the claw connects just right, ping , the whole cabin reverberates. A section of metal skin tears away, the size of a bath towel this time, and flies out into nothingness like the prayer at the end of a meeting. The flight attendant hands me three bottles this time along with the can of Coke. ‘We’ve got to end service ,’ he says. ‘ Turbulence ,’ shrugging, the way someone might say ‘traffic.’ My lips feel dry and I go for my lipstick. My hand fishes around in my pocket a little too clumsy. It works if you work it . Outside the plane, the creature finds the duct tape and goes to town pulling the strip clear from the plane. The adhesive clings to the creature’s fur and our eyes make contact as it rips the last of the tape free. There’s so much you can find in the bottom of a glass; there’s so much you can tell from a pinched, hairless face on the wrong side of a pressurized cabin. I want to tear the wings off this airplane , the creature is thinking. I purse my lips, nodding. I know, buddy. I’m going to shred this metal bird, no matter the cold, no matter how much I get cut up in the process. I think about the plastic bag covering my car’s broken window back home; about giving up my 30-day chip and washing coffee cups when I go back to meetings. The creature gives one hard pull at the open wound beneath the duct tape. This time a section of wire comes loose. Inside the cabin, every surface rattles like the hands of an old drunk and the captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. The creature’s face, when it looks back at me: I won’t survive the crash . I raise my little plastic cup in a salute. None of us will . A.D. Schweiss has worked as a prosecutor in California for 14 years, mostly handling crimes of intimate partner violence. He lives in Northern California with his troublesome kids, his troublesome wife, and a well-behaved dog.

Maybe: Person Last night I lost one of my three phones somewhere in the house, so I called it with one of the other two, and the call came up as being from Maybe: Person , and I think it’s because despite looking like, walking like, talking like one, I am always just shy of being  one, always wearing my Personness like an oversized poncho hastily swiped from the back of someone’s chair on a rainy day, or an undersized hoodie reluctantly borrowed from a slighter classmate in a freezing lecture theatre, so that I am perpetually ill at ease, to the point that there is comfort in discomfort, and certainty in uncertainty, or maybe I just need to fix the settings on my phone, maybe.  Poem in which I justify my unfounded yet fervent beliefs  Like how I should always say see you later instead of goodbye to people I want to meet again, despite it taking you and me five years to reunite even after I told you the former, because what is half a decade in comparison to an eternity? Or how a bruise must hurt to heal, so I apply balm like I am trying to budge a stubborn smudge, because who’s to say for sure that the eventual recovery is by virtue of the medicine or time itself, not pain? Or that there is some exact amount of want I must perform in order to achieve what I desire, so it doesn’t pass me by for indifference or desperation, even though I have succeeded and failed at random before, whether I was blasé about or burning for it. Because beliefs  in this context is really a euphemism for superstitions , and superstitions need no evidence or logic. Only fear or optimism, and the ensuing brief hushing of the mind.  Waste How human it is, to peruse this lyrical verse turn plain prose turn trailing lines, and rue— what a waste . What a waste of time, and effort, and love; all that precious intangibility expended, only to yield not even crescendo, let alone conclusion. And how human it is, to then immediately refute the self, and demand— must writing always yield meaningful outcome? Must it always make coherent sense from start to finish; come to tangible fruition beyond the page? Could we not have written for the sake of writing; loved for the sake of loving? In that light, then, I do agree it was a waste. What a waste to halt the pen mid rambling sentence; to lift it off the point to it all even in the face of unmeaning. Now let me say this plainly— I do not regret you . You could never be a waste to me.  Hands I.  You are alive, but only in memory. Once cold of your hands magnified thousand-fold in some attempt to extinguish the now scorch of your decisions.  II.  You are alive, but only in imagination. Even in a land of eternal summer, the wind is always wintry, so that the heat of your hands is unceasingly essential.  III.  You are alive, and then you are not. Lilies in lap, I watch them lay you in the dirt. From where I sit, I cannot see your hands. Allison Thung is a Singaporean poet. She is the author of Reacquaint  (kith books, 2024) and Molar  (kith books, 2024). Her poetry has been published in ANMLY, Sixth Finch, Cease, Cows, Gone Lawn,  and elsewhere, and nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction,  and Best Small Fictions.  Allison is an Assistant Poetry Editor at ANMLY . Find her on Instagram and Bluesky @poetrybyallison, or at www.allisonthung.com .

FOUR ELEMENTS for Magi Pierce Air, fire, water, earth: each element  matched with a cardinal direction. Air with the East. The inhale is inspiration, expanding breath, a promise not yet embodied. Fire with the South. Breath at the apex,  burning with creation and destruction. Water with the West. Movement and memory, the sinking sun, the passing of life. Earth with the North. Emptiness and eternity, the ground underfoot, cessation of breath. The exhalation is the letting go. The emptiness is what is left. Think of an ice cube lying on the ground on a neutral day. The fire of the focusing mind fed by the air of the breath softening ice into water, melting and moving, unlocking memory  petrified to habit. NIGHT MUSE for Marna Williams I sat listening to you  play “Moonlight Sonata”  with the lights off because you knew the music by heart.    The room was narrow,  paneled in pine with one wall of windows. Outside were pine woods  growing down a steep slope,  inky black below the night sky.  Inside, flickering candle flames reflected in the window. You sat at the piano, your back to me, your light-brown wavy hair catching the candlelight. I closed my eyes and let the music fill me with inexpressible longings, the possibility of happiness imprisoned inside me for its own protection. After the music, we discussed art and literature. I remember your breathless way  of speaking, the words tumbling  in excitement, the quality of your mind. Fifty years later,  you say you never knew  the miseries I fled from. TIDES OF THE BODY Breath, shape-changer, the organs gently swaying in their fascial hammocks like the flora and fauna of an undersea world— the yellow of the small intestine,  deep coral of the liver, green bile duct, pancreas the color of the ocean floor. Blood circulating through arterial rivers in an endless loop. Gently I placed my fingers  over the openings of my ears. The sound of my breath inside my throat was like the echo in a seashell, ever-present, softly audible. I tuned out the world for a moment so I could listen. Anne Whitehouse is a writer. She is the author of five poetry collections— The Surveyor's Hand, Blessings and Curses, The Refrain, Meteor Shower,  and Outside from the Inside , and four chapbooks— Bear in Mind, One Sunday Morning, Surrealist Muse,  and Escaping Lee Miller . She is the author of a novel, Fall Love , as well as short stories and essays. Of Fall Love , First Draft 's reviewer reported, Whitehouse's "poetic handling of language and of sensuous detail is superb... She conveys powerfully the cruel effects of all those coincidences of life."   Radcliffe Quarterly  said of The Surveyor's Hand  that the poems "combine a precise intelligent observation with a personal voice and sensibility." She has also written short stories, essays and feature articles , and book reviews .

February 3rd, 2049 “My fellow Pluribans,” said President Percival Bower into the live broadcast camera. “Today, I stand before you as a humble servant of this honorable country to urge you all toward this nation’s divine purpose—” “ Psst. Psssst.”  The President felt the tiniest of tugs on his upper ear, like a little hand pawing at the loose skin of his cartilaginous fold. Only he could hear the whiskered whispers: “Stay on script, Percy! You want the protests to end, don’t you?” He loosened his shirt collar and flashed one of his election-winning smiles at the camera, the thin, aged skin around his mouth and eyes wrinkling backward. “In these times of uncertainty, I tell you this: just as a wheel of cheese draws its character from the land where it ages, so shall the Pluriban people draw their strength from the land’s rolling hills and roaring waters. We are a nation of inventors and builders—of talented hunters and resourceful scavengers. Together, we can craft a future that’s as round as the finest Brie and as robust as Parmesan…” President Bower addressed his nation with an unerring poise and grace. The words on the screen meant nothing to him; his focus was entirely on the hypnotizing diction and confident delivery that won him the hearts of the people and a third consecutive term in office. But as he spoke from the comfort of the executive’s chair, his staff knew time had taken its toll on poor ol’ Patient Percy (a nickname earned during his first term that was plagued by an endless chain of filibusters). Before the broadcast, a brigade of cosmetologists caked his gossamer skin and varicose veins in a slurry of powders, primers, and concealers, all several shades darker than his now naturally cadaverous complexion. To the camera, he was as young as ever, but to the surrounding staff, Patient Percy was an aged sculpture, a disintegrating monument of the past better off in a museum than in office. It was sad, really. The halls of Pluriba’s Capitol building wfilled with snickers and jeers as Percy passed. The geezer ignored them as best he could, the presidential punchline in a building full of would-be comedians. Beyond the physical superficialities of age, there was a hollowness to Percy’s visage, a blankness to his gaze. Where once stood a proud and passionate man, now sat a well-trained ape, a sideshow act performing for the camera. He spoke with his mouth on autopilot as his mind drifted back in time. Soon, he was in his twenties again, donning his prized Calvin Klein denim jacket and taking his date to a drive-in movie in his ‘77 Chevy Chevette. He tried to remember his date’s face, or who she even was, but the drive-ins were his go-to, a favorite in his playbook, and ol’ Percy could not for the life of him tell one memory from another. Her identity faded in his synaptic storm, blending together with all the dates, movies, and drives he’d experienced across his lifetime. Now, nearly 90 years old, he chuckled (mentally) at the thought that he sympathized more with the jalopy Chevette lurching anemically up the hills to its romantic roadside rendezvous than with his younger self. “…Let us live up to the namesake of this historic nation. Let us grate away the doubts. Let us melt down our differences into a fondue of common principles. In this, we must succeed, or Pluriba will crumble feta-like under its own inaction. E Pluribus Unum—out of one, many. We shall prevail.” Percy held his freeze-frame smile until the camera operator gave the thumbs up. The live broadcast was over, the rest of Pluriba now enjoying a prerecorded  “brought to you by the Von Rattenspieler Foundation”  PSA. “I cannot believe,” said the voice in Percy’s ear, “that you almost bastardized my perfect script.” The President’s hairpiece shifted and undulated awkwardly, as if caught in an ocean wave. From beneath the toupee crawled an albino rat, fully clothed, donning a fine Italian suit, teal tie, and a top hat, all perfectly tailored to its unique proportions. The rodent scurried down the President’s arm and onto the desk in front of them. None of the staff in the room even batted an eye at the furry creature standing bipedal on the President’s desk. Percy Bower slumped his servile, old shoulders. “I’m sorry, Heinrich. It’s getting hard to read the screen and keep my place.” The rat shook his head. “ I’m sorry isn’t good enough, Percy,” said the rat. Heinrich strutted toward his own chair at the corner of the President’s desk and lit a doll-sized smoker’s pipe. His chair was a miniature replica, not of the President’s chair, but of the Golden Throne of Tutankhamun, its projecting lions’ heads replaced with the golden heads of rats. Heinrich snapped the fingers of his tiny paws and the room stood at attention. “Everybody leave and give President Bower and me a moment alone,” he said. The senior staff members started filing out of the presidential office, pausing only when a greenhorn staffer opened his mouth to speak. “But sir,” said the broadcast team rookie, all eyes in the room set dead on him, “we’ll be done and rolled out of here in ten minutes, tops.”  The room fell to a pin-drop. Only the gentle whispering of inhaled air and the subtle crackling of burning tobacco could be heard amidst the staff’s muffled heartbeats. President Percy stared wide-eyed at the young staffer, his head ever-so-slightly turning side to side, his lips mouthing something indiscernible, both vain attempts to save the lamb from the lion.  “What’s your name, son?” asked Heinrich, blowing smoke into the young man’s face. “I don’t recall seeing you around here.” “It’s John, sir,” responded the boy, gulping, “John Mackelby. I was onboarded two weeks ago.” Heinrich stood from his golden throne and walked forward, sucking on his pipe as the nails of his paws tap-tapped on the stained mahogany desk. “Then you know who I am, correct?” “Yes, Mr. Von Rattenspieler, sir. I’m sorry, I’m a big fan of your work and the work of your foundation and—” “And so you come and insult me in my office, is that it?” John looked toward Percy for help, but the shell of a man in the executive’s chair could only stare down at the carpet, avoiding the stress of the boy’s gaze as he gobbled down his medication and breathed in paced breaths. “I asked you a question, boy,” asserted the rat lord, “or are you hard of hearing?” “No, sir, no, I’m sorry, sir, I misspoke, I just, I—” In an instant, Heinrich Von Rattenspieler was airborne, lunging headlong at the broadcaster. He dug his unnaturally long claws through the boy’s shirt and punctured his flesh. The young man panicked as the rat now rubbed its fur against his bare skin, clawing and scratching. “OH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK!” he yelled, flailing his arms and legs like a Frenchman in 1518. He patted himself down, blow after blow missing as Von Rattenspieler climbed the mountain of human flesh, his claws pulling him up the boy’s back and neck. The office doors swung open and security guards flooded the room, their assault rifles at the ready and their fingers on the triggers.  “HELP!” screamed the Mackelby boy, but in the rat’s nest, no one could hear him scream. At gunpoint, the guards brought the boy to his knees and pinned his arms behind his back. Heinrich, now perched on the side of the boy’s skull, leaned down and whispered into the boy’s ear, “Let this be a lesson, Mr. Mackelby,” said Heinrich. “ Always know your betters. ” # April 18th, 2049 This could all be over so easily , thought Percy, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forehead dripping sweat as he watched the Foundation’s High Rodentry decide what to make of the boy in their dungeons. Two months ago, he had done nothing as he watched hairless apes in Kevlar whisk away a young twenty-something for asking a simple question. He had, under direct orders from Heinrich, called the young Mackelby’s parents. Using his politician’s tongue, he assuaged all of their fears and suspicions. John is a remarkable young fellow, and an irreplaceable member of our team. Because of his outstanding performance, I have chosen him for a very special, highly secret operation…  The Mackelbys ate it up, none the wiser that their son was  indisposed deep in the bowels below the Capitol building where the rats once slept, waiting. Now, Percy watched them discuss the future of Pluriba, his heel itching in his shoe. One squish and it’s over. And that was true, but he would be powerless against their legacy. “This is the perfect opportunity, Heinrich,” said one of the tiny bureaucrats, a toothpick cane in his paw, his whiskers shaped into a refined mustache. “It’s exactly what we’ve been waiting for!” “Jermander is right,” said another in a red dress, wavy blonde locks sweeping down her shoulders, a pearl necklace around her neck. “I totally, like, don’t wanna miss our chance.” Mr. Von Rattenspieler’s nose twitched as his beady, red eyes leered at the Mackelby boy chained loosely to the dungeon wall. The first week of his sentence was utter madness, with all the kicking and screaming, his neck veins popping from the strain. By the second week, Johnny boy’s voice was hoarse and his clothes torn to shreds by the interrogations . He was nude by the third week, his ribs poking out from his emaciated frame. And now, as Heinrich Von Rattenspieler listened intently to the wise counsel of his Foundation’s High Rodentry, John Mackelby was silent. Silent and numb. “Patience, Vivian,” said Heinrich as he caressed the cheek of the blonde-haired rat. “Breaking a beast takes time.” He glanced back at Percy and smiled, his two front teeth breaking out from their oral prison. Percy said nothing. Heinrich whistled a specific tune, a signal melody, an encrypted command. One of the armed guards broke formation, approached Von Rattenspieler, and extended his arm. The rat lord climbed and perched on the guard’s shoulder. Now at eye level, he turned his attention to his prisoner. “Mr. Mackelby, I must be honest with you. I’ve come to adore our daily discussions,” he said, sitting with one leg crossed as the other dangled over the guard’s collarbone. “Have you given any thought to what we discussed yesterday?” The boy hung there, unresponsive but breathing, his eyes vacant. “I suppose not. We can’t expect apes to do much thinking now, can we?” Heinrich laughed from his gut, and the others followed. “John, you would be spearheading a great organization, giving back to your country in a way that most can only dream of.” The prisoner grunted. “Yes, and imagine how proud your dear parents would be of their son.” John’s eyes lit up at the mention of his parents. “Ahh, yes. President Bower, you’ve spoken with the Mackelbys. What did they say when the President of Pluriba called them personally?” Percy shifted in his decrepit stance. When I lied to them? When I told them everything they wanted to hear? “They were overjoyed,” said Percy. “And what else?” asked Heinrich with knowing eyes. Percy lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the ground before him. “They thanked God for the blessing.” “ They thanked God, ” echoed Von Rattenspieler, “isn’t that something?” The rat named Jermander signed the cross and laughed. Vivian chuckled, twirling her hair around her little, clawed fingers. “I pray to God every night that I don’t wake up like one of those fat, disgusting little hamsters up north.” John grunted again, louder, his lips cracked and bleeding. For a moment, the boy’s face morphed and it was Percy’s own son chained to that wall, young again and crying for his father. But with a blink, the illusion collapsed. “Oh, Vivian, my sweet,” said Heinrich, “there is not a God in Heaven that could ever make you as ugly as those vermin .” The lady-rat melted with the compliment. Percy imagined that, if he could see through her fur, she’d be blushing. Can rats even blush?  It’s interesting, the way perceptions color our language, and while the rats interrogated their prisoner, Percy mulled over how unsurprising their methods truly were—inhuman aristocrats with inhumane procedures. In the end, the behavior of the rats surprised him less than humanity’s own propensity for cruelty. We were supposed to be the humans, after all. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Mackelby?” asked Heinrich. The prisoner hesitated and closed his eyes. He nodded in agreement, a single tear trickling down his dusty cheek. “Human or rat, we are all God’s children, correct? In his image made, the three of us rats surely were not, and yet here we are, speaking with you on our  terms. Did you know that some sects of Christianity teach that Earth’s animals, God’s creatures, were created for  humans? Yes, it’s true! Whether as a source of food, or a source of furs, or even a source of companionship, it’s a belief held dear by many members of your species. What interesting turn of events, then, for an entire species to historically be regarded as worthless pests despite such an allegedly holy inception, don’t you think?” The Mackelby boy let out a deflating moan, the airy sound of heat-breath escaping from his lungs. “But God works in mysterious ways.” “Mysterious indeed!” said Jermander. “And eventually,” continued Heinrich, “your species found a place for us in your labs, just as the tales told, our existence solely justified by our usefulness in humanity’s little tests. But curiosity is an addictive devil, isn’t it? I wonder how it felt when your scientists stared deep into our eyes and found… competition. ” The boy drifted in and out of consciousness, his eyes glazing over and falling back into his skull as Heinrich spoke. Percy crossed his arms, hugging himself and pinching at the loose skin of his arms.  “Heinrich,” said Percy, “the boy is fading. He needs to eat.” “AND HE WILL!” growled Von Rattenspieler, his red eyes slicing through the thick air. The other rats recoiled instinctively. Heinrich paused, took a deep breath, and adjusted his tie. “He will eat,” he said calmly, “ once he agrees. ” “Heinrich, you can’t—” cried Percy, stepping forward. “I can’t, what ?” Percy froze, his words stuck in his throat. He stepped back, crossing his arms again. Von Rattenspieler smiled a wild grin and turned back to his younger prisoner. He flicked the ear of his human steed. The guard reached into one of his many pockets and revealed a sizable chunk of rich, aged Manchego. John’s eyes shot open from the sharp aroma alone, his mouth watering with Pavlovian submission. “You won’t have to do anything, Mr. Mackelby,” said Heinrich. “Jermander will handle it all from the comfort of your hairline. Just play your part.” “Yes,” said the boy weakly, “yes, yes, yes. Anything, Mr. Von Rattenspieler, sir. I’m sorry, please, anything you want, the cheese, please, I need the cheese, I need—” Heinrich snapped his fingers and the guard tossed the Manchego. The cheese chunk collected dust and dirt as it bounced toward the boy’s feet. John descended upon the slice, devouring it like an animal as Jermander climbed up his spine and nestled deep in his curly locks. # May 27th, 2049 John Mackelby, now dressed in his finest Italian suit and holding a briefcase, adjusted his tie and stepped through the threshold into the executive office, the door locking shut behind him. President Percy, distracted from his important presidential business by the intrusion, gawked at the unrecognizable man standing before him. How long ago was it when—? It felt like a lifetime ago. He stashed the Faustian memory away and hid it behind lock and key, determined to forget the day he traded his denim for tailored suits—his freedom for power. Yet as he sat there and watched Von Rattenspieler inspect their newest pupil, Percy felt the most powerless he had in his entire life. “What a wonderful man you’ve become, Mackelby!” said the rat lord. “And in record time, too. Jermander, I am impressed.” Out crawled Jermander from beneath the boy’s gelled back hair. “Thank you, sir,” said Jermander as he stroked his mustache. “John here is a remarkable young man. He understood his role in things very quickly and, once the growing pains subsided, excelled beyond my wildest imagination. He’s a natural-born speaker, this one.” Jermander patted his pet on the shoulder and Mackelby smiled shyly, blushing. “You flatter me, sirs,” said the boy dressed as a man. “I am doing my best not to let your gratitude go to waste. I thank you both, and all the High Rodentry, for this amazing opportunity.” Amazing opportunity?  thought Percy. Poor ol’ Patient Percy—he’s lied so many times throughout the years that he’s forgotten what the truth even tastes like. For as long as he could remember, he and Heinrich were of one mind, one body, united by shared ambition. But when did he last know the rat lord’s plans? When did the strangers start coming and going from his office, no invitation from him, there to see Heinrich, and only Heinrich , Percy just an ornament on the walls, window dressing for the rat lord’s empire? His pulse climbed, his heartbeats shaking his aching jaw as his breaths shortened to painful whispers. He reached for the bottle of pills in the desk drawer and emptied two tablets into his mouth, chewing them raw. “Heinrich,” said Percy softly. “What is this about?” Von Rattenspieler and Jermander shared smiles filled with cunning and subterfuge—the type of smiles flashed among parents before they lie to their children about Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. “Oh, Percival, you’ve seen the same videos we have,” said Heinrich. “All over socials, it’s no news that the public has been rowdy since our most recent odds-defying reelection. As you focused on your presidential duties, I took it upon myself to ensure the safety and security of the Pluriban people.” “Yes, yes!” said Jermander. “Just establishing the groundwork for a minor restructuring of Pluriba’s civil security services, that is all.” Percy stood from his chair as suddenly as a man his age could. “And neither of you felt the need to tell the President of the country any of those plans? A restructuring, Heinrich?” Protests, both peaceful and otherwise, were ravaging this once peaceful country. Rumors of an infiltration by foreign powers spread across the Internet during his last term in office. The reelection only added fuel to the fire, raging across the message boards and chat rooms where reality meets fiction, the perfect breeding ground for conspiracy theories. It wasn’t long before the public linked the Von Rattenspieler Foundation, a primary sponsor of Percy’s campaign, to a series of biological testing facilities and genetic manipulation labs across the world. Then, likely in a moment of regret and panic, anonymous whistleblowers planted the budding seeds of truth in the public consciousness. These are not ordinary rats,  they said. These are evolution incarnate. And if all the science fiction in the world taught Percy one thing, it was that humanity cannot handle being second to another. It seemed inevitable that Homo Sapiens would choose its own destruction over its subjugation. Von Rattenspieler sighed and waltzed back to his golden throne at the edge of the desk. “Percy, you’re right,” said Heinrich. “He is?” said Jermander, astonished. “Yes. I should never have hidden this away from you, Percy. The truth is, I hid it because I was worried about you. At your age, there are complications, are there not? Your heart weakens with every passing day—we hear it, the beating—we all can hear it, Percy. Our ears are tuned well that way.”  Percy sank back into his cushioned chair. “We’ve grown together,” continued Heinrich. “We’ve risen from the depths to the stars, and I simply could not imagine running this country without my dearest and oldest friend by my side. There will be no more lies from here on out, I promise you.” Percy buried his head in his hands. “I thought the public had warmed up to us. I haven’t seen or heard of any protests or riots for months.” Jermander turned to Heinrich, unsure of how to proceed. The rat lord nodded, and Jermander tapped the shoulder of the Mackelby boy with his toothpick cane. John Mackelby placed his briefcase on the desk and unlocked it. From inside, he pulled out a tablet computer and turned it on, fiddling about with its touchscreen controls as Percy sat there, confused and dumb, like a toddler watching balloon animals made for the first time. He flipped the screen over and held it as Percy watched the recorded news coverage in horror.  The protests had not only continued, but had turned into organized, riotous displays of restless dissatisfaction. In a matter of months, armed militias formed across all the major cities, determined to spread awareness of the truth at all costs. The people lived in constant fear that they or a loved one might be caught in the crossfire between rebel militias and local law enforcement. Schools were shut down, hospitals were over capacity, his country was ripping apart at the seams, and the question on everyone’s lips was “Where is my President?” But he wasn’t there to answer them. A new nickname replaced the old, and Patient Percy was no more. It was Puppet Percy now, and those crowds chanted his new name with disgust as they filled the streets, rifles in hand, demanding change. Percy remembered John’s cries for help in this very office just a few months ago. He sat and did nothing then, too. Was this even John anymore? he thought as he stared at the man holding the screen for him. I’m sorry Mr. And Mrs. Mackelby. Your son is dead. “Turn it off,” said Percy as he chewed down two of his pills. “Do you understand, now?” asked Heinrich. “They’ll never accept us or our whiskered faces. But there’s still hope.” “How?” asked Percy. “Because there’s a silent majority out there, waiting for their President to address their concerns and do whatever is necessary. They’re waiting for you to lead them as you always have.” “Then how do we proceed?” Heinrich’s serrated smile stretched across his furry face, punctuated by his beady, red eyes. “With a show of force, Percy,” said Heinrich. “Mr. Mackelby here is to act as director of a new civil security department. Once the necessary measures have been taken, all you’ll have to do is what you’ve always done—read the script, flash your smile, and garner support. Your people will love you for it.” # September 19th, 2049 The summer was brutal and hot, and as it ended, Percy wondered if his country could ever truly heal. Director Mackelby’s new position heading the Government Office of Unity, Diplomacy, and Amity, or GOUDA, has proved essential to maintaining order. With the establishment of several state-of-the-art federal prisons across Pluriba and the proliferation of undercover GOUDA agents throughout the territories, political agitators have scurried back underground like the vermin they are. Schools reopened as violent crime plummeted and reached record-breaking, all-time lows. “ We cannot become complacent,” warned Jermander. “The dissidents will rise and strike again, more organized than they ever were before. We must stay vigilant.”   Percy   knew this—felt it in his bones—but Jermander was the one to say the quiet part out loud. It was the calm before the storm, and everyone was on edge. Perhaps that’s why Percy lent his signature to a parade of Heinrich’s newly parented  hires, a mess of directors, generals, ambassadors, consuls, secretaries, and judges, all under the watchful advisory of a High Rodentry official. When the Foundation’s Vivian de Tableau entered his office, riding on the shoulder of a former preschool teacher, it was fear that decided Percy’s silence. When Heinrich explained that the young woman’s blonde, Barbie-like looks and slender frame lent themselves well to the camera as Pluriba’s new Press Secretary, he’d only nodded and signed on the dotted line. Day after day, signature after signature, the halls of the Capitol building, once lively and filled with laughter, fell silent as these strangers shuffled about their daily routines. And like Mr. Mackelby, they strolled around the Capitol campus with vacant eyes and eager grins.  I’m sorry, sir or madame, your partner will not be returning home for the foreseeable future. I know you’d wish for them to be there, watching the children grow up, but their country needs them now. Please remember on every passing birthday, every quiet Thanksgiving, and every Christmas missed, their sacrifices are for you. Sincerely, President Percival Bower. Percy hand-wrote the letters himself, the throbbing arthritis in his hand acting as a sort of flagellant penance. He deserved it, all the aching, the burning, and the swelling, for his impotence. Yet as he penned those letters, he enjoyed the comforting embrace of the leather-bound executive’s chair tucked safely away in the ivory tower of the Capitol building, high above the chaos below. A gaggle of Heinrich’s guards barged into his office in pairs, each carrying five-by-ten-foot thick glass panes as they muddied the Persian rug with their boots. “What are you doing? What is all this?” asked Percy. “Careful!” cried Heinrich from the shoulder of one guard. “Don’t let the sharp corners get caught on the drapes! If they rip, I know none of you can afford to replace them!” He leaped off the man’s shoulder and onto the executive’s desk.  “Heinrich, what’s going on?” “Preparation, Percy. Vivian has been hard at work garnering support online for the administration and GOUDA. Please, look at this.” Heinrich crawled about the desk, turning on the desktop computer that Percy barely knew how to use. He scurried on the keyboard on all fours and navigated to the official social media accounts of Pluriba’s federal administration. “At first, we struggled to gain any meaningful traction on the algorithmic tides. But then Vivian had a marvelous breakthrough.” He jumped off the keyboard and onto the mouse, riding it like a skateboard, and clicked on a video posted two weeks ago. In it, Vivian’s human mouthpiece was walking through a cell block of one of the new GOUDA prisons.  “This isn’t even really a prison,” she says in the video, vlogging her visit. “It’s more like a resort than anything. I’d like, totally come here even without getting court ordered.” The video cuts to the Press Secretary face-to-face with a man behind steel bars. “All of Pluriba wants to know,” she says to the man, “what are you  being re-parented for?” She stared into the camera blankly, more concerned with the integrity of her makeup than the man’s answer. The prisoner looked into the lens, his cheeks hollow, his eyes stained red by tears that have run dry. “Please,” he begged. “Let me go.” “Nuh uh, buster! Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time! Now answer the question for the good people of Pluriba.” “I-I’m just a geneticist, I worked for the Foundation, please,” the man begged. “I did what I was told, I ran the tests exactly as ordered, I don’t understand what is happening, but I heard them! They can speak, damn it! I know they can!” The man broke down and fell to his knees, groveling. “But those lies you keep telling, honey, they have consequences. People believed you and got really mad. They destroyed stuff and hurt a lot of people.” “Please… I only want to see my family…” “Well, that’s a bit cheesy, dontcha think?” said the woman, giggling as the video ended. “Heinrich, why would you show me this?” asked Percy. “How does this lunacy help us garner support?” “Look here,” said the rat, pointing at the post’s engagement metrics. It sat at twenty-seven million views, dwarfing the several thousand that official accounts normally accumulated. As Heinrich scrolled through the comments, Percy’s mouth gradually opened. He expected outrage, calls to arms, petitions for his head to be first on the guillotine, but instead the screen filled with comment after comment of snarks and banter. “ OMG! I can’t believe this monster’s a father!” “Angels like her shouldn’t be around such horrible men.” “What a loon! Hope he gets the help he needs!” “A man that cheesy would make a great rat meal.” Percy shut the monitor off. “That’s enough, Heinrich. I want nothing to do with this.” The rat lord climbed up Percy’s torso and sat atop his head. Leaning into the President’s ear, he whispered, “That’s the beauty of it, Percy. You don’t have to lift a finger, and your people will still love you. Post after post, they joke with us, laugh with us, all about the sheer insanity that rats could ever talk. They believe the rebels are mentally ill at best and bloodthirsty criminals at worst, a common enemy to ostracize, regardless. Humor, it seems, is a winning strategy.” “But what about the glass?” he asked, glancing at the guards still out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. “Oh, that? Precaution is all—bulletproof glass for next weekend when we invite your loyal public to a live address that their dear president will give.” “A what?” Percy said, quaking as he reached for his pills. “Once the word spreads, the agitators are sure to come show their disapproval. Jermander and his GOUDA agents will be here when they do, and then the hearts of the people will be ours forever.” # September 24th, 2049 Hundreds of thousands of people piled into the crowded courtyard to hear their precious leader speak. Men and women alike showed their support for the administration in their own ways. Some cheered Percy’s name and waved Pluriba’s flag above them as their children climbed atop their shoulders for a better view. Others sang patriotic folk songs, strumming their guitars as crowds formed around them. “They say the rats done come to take our freedom today, oh darlin’ they can’t be helped, just lock ‘em away…”  Signs and banners dotted the crowd. “The real rats are in the schools teaching our kids!” read one. “Rats can’t talk! IT’S JUST FACTS!” read another. And throughout the ridiculing, uproarious crowd, several onlookers showed their support with rat costumes. Many wore those cheap, rubber Halloween masks with chemical smells that leave you questioning their effect on your health, while others wore full-body fur suits complete with paws and a tail.  Percy rehearsed Heinrich’s speech for days, obsessing over the details. Where should the pauses be? Where should I chuckle? Any frowns? Any smiles? Look left? Look right? Remember the hand gestures, always punctuate with your hands. The words now flowed effortlessly from his mouth, devoid of meaning, if they ever had any to begin with. He was ready to play his part. Inside the executive’s office, the entirety of President Percy’s newly appointed entourage was present, each with their own High Rodentry adviser perched proudly on their head. One by one, Percy shook the shallow hands of his cabinet members. “Sir,” said Director Mackelby as Percy shook his hand. Jermander stroked his mustachioed whiskers and nodded in agreement. “You’re gonna do great, sweetie,” said the Press Secretary. “Break a leg!” echoed Vivian. Percy made his rounds through the room, then stood before Heinrich Von Rattenspieler’s golden throne and extended his arm. The rat lord inserted a wireless, two-way radio in his ear and crawled up through his sleeve, stashing himself beneath the President’s toupee.  “It’s time,” said Von Rattenspieler on the radio for all officials and guards to hear, “to make Pluriba proud.” Percy swung open the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony, the bulletproof glass panels towering ten feet high and bordering him on all sides. He felt safe behind those thick shields, yet exposed, like an aquarium fish with no rock or plant to hide in. GOUDA agents flanked the crowd in each cardinal direction. A handful of agents hid on the Capitol building’s rooftop, deploying sniper rifles. Armored trucks with reinforcements stood elsewhere at the ready. Percy approached the podium at the balcony’s edge and tapped on the microphone. The crowd dropped their diversions and fell quiet as they turned their attention up toward their President. Only the occasional cough and baby babble broke through the respectful silence. Percy leaned in and spoke. “I am President Percival Bower,” he said, “and I want to welcome you all to the first annual Ratter’s Day Rally.” The crowd erupted in cheer. “PER-CY! PER-CY! PER-CY!” they chanted, and for the first time in his life, Percy felt like he had achieved something real. “Earlier this year, a few sick, so-called experts ,” said Percy, making sure to use air quotes for emphasis, “chose to spread traitorous lies about the Von Rattenspieler Foundation and my administration. At first, we chose to respect their right to live in a fantasy world of their own creation. It was freedoms like those, we thought, that made Pluriba the greatest nation on Earth. I will be the first to admit it; we were wrong.” Light cheers and whistles flitted through the crowd. “A few months ago, a vocal minority of Pluribans took those lies to heart. They began rallying and marching, demanding that the government and the rest of the public bend to the will of their delusions. I am proud to say, my administration never did, and never will.” “Let’s go, Percy!” yelled a supporter in a rat mask. “We love you!” The radio in Percy’s ear sprang to life and a rooftop agent reported in. “Tangos on route, azimuth one-nine-five, standby,” said the sniper. “Affirmative,” replied an agent on the ground. Percy’s heart sputtered in his chest. “And when their demands fell on deaf ears,” continued Percy, lightheaded, sweat beading on his face, “these terrorists , yes, terrorists , not rebels , not revolutionaries , these terrorists  threw the largest, most violent tantrum in this nation’s history. Their armed riots shut down entire cities, cost innocent citizens their lives, and did irrevocable damage to our communities—all to somehow convince us that rats can talk!” The crowd burst into laughter at the thought. “Tangos in the open,” said an agent on the private channel. “Weapons visible.” “Our GOUDA agents have done marvelous work restoring order across the country. And so, as you enjoy the festivities of the first ever Ratter’s Day celebration, remember those brave men and women holding our nation together. In honor of them, and the insanity we’ve all endured this year, I declared September 24th National Ratter’s Day—the day sanity prevailed. E Pluribus Unum? No. E Pluribus Ratterkind!” The crowd was in an uproar, their cheers and shouts shaking the glass panes that wrapped around the balcony. “RAT-TER-KIND! RAT-TER-KIND!” they chanted, jumping up and down and hugging each other as tears streamed down their smiling faces. As the people celebrated, rebels approached from the southwest, armed and carrying an enormous banner that read “The Truth Shall Set Us Free.” They pushed into the crowd, forcing back the celebrating masses with intimidating chants of their own. “Snipers,” said Heinrich Von Rattenspieler on the radio channel, “neutralize the banner carriers.” A single shot rang true as a banner carrier fell to the blood-stained ground, the banner crashing as the others prepared their weapons. A cavalcade of armored GOUDA trucks encircled the agitators and opened fire. Blood rained down on the crowd as they zigzagged in all directions, desperate to escape the massacre. The more patriotic attendees joined in with the GOUDA forces, tackling the rebels and wrestling their rifles away. Percy watched the chaos unfold from the balcony, his face pallid and numb as bullets ricocheted off the glass. A costumed attendee reveled in the carnage, his ratty fur suit soaked from the slaughter. He snatched a rebel’s rifle, cackling as he unloaded it point-blank into the rebel’s now mutilated face. “ This  is the new Pluriba!” declared Heinrich on the radio. “Look at how my people love me!” Percy scrambled back inside, the world melting away as sweat dripped down his face, his heart beating out of his chest. He threw himself at the executive’s desk and opened the drawer. “My pills!” said the ragged old man. “Where are my pills!?” He collapsed to the floor, gasping in short, punctuated breaths as his cabinet stood there and stared at him, inhuman smiles on all their faces. Help me, he thought, but he could not speak. He clutched his heart. Please…  Heinrich crawled out from beneath Percy’s hairpiece. “You did great, Percival,” whispered the rat lord in his ear, “but it’s a new era now. I’m sure your son and grandson will make fine, fresh faces for my new regime.” Heinrich’s cabinet left the room, leaving the two alone. “Shh,” whispered Von Rattenspieler as Percy’s world faded black, “it’s alright. It’s okay. Now you will never question me again.” Percy’s eyes widened as his arms grasped at ghosts in the air. Von Rattenspieler nestled in even closer to his dear companion’s wilted ear. “ Always ,” he said, his serrated teeth brushing against Percy’s cochlea, “ know your betters. ”